


Glad You Came

by Jolien



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bar, Drinking, Hand-wavy inheritance law, Long Travels, M/M, One Night Stands, Seattle, or maybe Goodnight is just not very good at it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 05:16:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17522603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jolien/pseuds/Jolien
Summary: After the death of his father, Goodnight travels to Seattle to fight his family for the inheritance. There, he meets a handsome stranger who is definitely not who he seems to be.





	Glad You Came

**Author's Note:**

> There is an additional warning I feel I need to add here, but doing so would **massively spoiler** the end of the story. The warning has nothing to do with the PWP, all sexual contact is 100% consensual, very enthusiastic, and fairly "vanilla", so if you're here for that, go right ahead. It's pretty obvious when that part is over.  
> Those who feel the need to be warned even at the expense of the story's conclusion, please skip to the End Notes.

Goodnight ordered them in twos. They came in tiny glasses, with perspiration already gathering on the crystal. It was the one-hundred-percent rye: dark like the red oak of his grandmother’s interior trimmings, a little on the sweet side, underlaid by a hint of vanilla. Some homegrown organic brand, though; not like home. It did its job.

He tossed down the first and motioned for more. He wanted to be anywhere but here. The bartender gave him a skeptical look but obviously got paid enough to keep his thoughts to himself. He merely poured from the bottle that said “Seattle” on the side, then went to put it back.

“I deserve it,” Goodnight told the guy’s back. He lifted the glass. “For my old man.”

When he was young, Goodnight had looked up to his father like any other boy. He still cherished the memories of the man holding him up, a red tea towel fixed to his t-shirt with three clothespins – left, right and in the middle – whirling him around with his arms outstretched. Goodnight had been pretending to be Superman, back then, but the real hero had always been his father. Right up until the day – Goodnight was twelve, old enough for the memory to be as clear as window glass – his mother broke down sobbing in the kitchen and his father not there to comfort her.

Goodnight kicked the dirt in the same yard they had so often played in together. He tore down the tree house they built and slammed each of his father’s handcrafted bottle ships onto the stone-tiled terrace, one after the other, until he was breathing raggedly and his pants and shoes were coated in glittering, sun-reflecting smithereens.

The thing was… he hadn’t only taken himself off to god-knew-where. He’d taken the family fortune, sold the house they owned without informing his wife, and left them with nothing but nineteen dollars and the clothes they wore.

Eventually, Goodnight had gotten over it. No one could hold a grudge for fifteen years, and if they could, they were surely mad. Wired wrongly somewhere, in the head or the heart; family was still family, and his grandmother repeated it often enough for the words to stick.

In his later, soul-wounded years, Goodnight had come to see his father as more of a kindred spirit: he had been an artist – good with his hands – and as such perhaps been torn apart by the same ever-spinning rollercoaster of despair and inspiration Goodnight found himself on more often than not. In the end, Goodnight had been prepared to forgive him.

Until the day he opened a letter from a notary in Seattle and found enclosed their condolences, as well as an invitation to come up to Washington and discuss the matter of his father’s possessions with the five siblings he, until then, hadn’t known he had.

The letter had made all the bitterness rise back up from its deep, dark hiding place. Ever since he’d sliced the envelope, it boiled in his throat and dripped like acid over his vocal cords.

Discuss? What was there to discuss? What claim did any of those bastards of his father’s have? The old man had been married to one woman only, and she had been Goodnight’s mother.

He had shown up before the notary this afternoon in his best pinstripe, full of righteous fury. Goodnight _owed_ her to take back what was rightfully hers. All of it. He had promptly been waved off.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Robicheaux, but we’re still missing crucial participants. One of the, uh, potential heirs was delayed and without them, the inheritance cannot be split.”

“There is nothing to split. As my father’s only _legitimate_ son,” he drew out the words, relishing how it made at least two of the middle-aged women in the audience – mothers, probably, of the others – narrow their eyes. “I am the only heir with a true claim.”

The notary wiped his brow. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”

Goodnight went straight back to his hotel. He tried to read for an hour in his room, but the thermostat was broken – he already hated Washington; the bayou ran in his veins, he was not made for this kind of weather. The cold damp was so much less pleasant than the warm humidity of home. Quickly, he gave up and went down to warm himself with drink.

On the bright side: a few more of the rye and he could stumble back up, huddle under the covers, and – hopefully – sleep.

He lifted the second glass to his lips and all of a sudden, the chair he was sitting on rattled like an earthquake.

“Hey! Are you drunk or actually deaf? Take your man-purse off the chair, I want to sit,” an accented voice snarled.

Goodnight jumped. Then he carefully put the glass down before turning to give whoever that was a piece of his mind. He found an open jacket directly in front of his face, with a shirt underneath that revealed a smooth collarbone and neck, and further up, a face. 

The man was _gorgeous_. Breathtakingly gorgeous. The kind Goodnight expected to see on a silver screen, or maybe on one of his grandmother’s fundraisers. Or in a wet dream, maybe, except that even his overactive imagination was not good enough to dream up someone this pretty. His words died on his tongue.

‘ _Oh, tell me, of sable hair and night-eyes. Oh, tell me, of his face, that his frown, like the gnarly twigs and leaves can nature not rob of their beauty–_ ‘ Their eyes met and Goodnight’s impromptu poetry blanked. He tried to get his throat to swallow. Failed.

The man took Goodnight’s ‘man-purse’ and dumped it beside his chair. Then he slid onto the bar stool with his duffel bag between his legs and Goodnight caught a glimpse of crumpled paper taped to the handle, reading _ICN to SEA_ , two days ago.

Goodnight’s bag toppled from its standing on the floor and sunk against his leg like a fainting lady. He startled. “Thank–,” his voice started to scratch. “Thank you?”

The guy flagged down the bartender and ordered something, keeping his eyes resolutely on the liquor selection, lined up like legos on the wall opposite of them. So close yet so far away.

Goodnight was too caught up in his staring to listen to his order.

The bartender came back with the drink – a concoction that shone Smurf-y blue in the dim light – and Goodnight waited for him to place it onto a coaster and disappear again, before he cleared his throat.

The man picked up his glass and knocked the possibly electric drink down in much the same fashion Goodnight had earlier. The way one drunk when one wanted to forget.

Eventually, Goodnight realized that his persistent gaze wasn’t going to make the man turn. He had to say something. Sadly, right now the only thing he could think about was the fall of his hair around his temples: the stray strand that had wriggled free from the thin, red hair-tie which held up his man-bun, to curl against where his pulse ran in his smooth neck.

Goodnight had no idea what to say. But words rarely failed him, even when he had to hear them first to know what he’d said, so he opened his mouth anyway. “I–”

The man whirled to face him, eyebrows drawn into a frown on his handsome face. “Look, I get it. We’re at a somewhat gay bar, I’m new, that’s exciting. But I’ve had a fucking rough day and apart from that, I’m really, really not interested,” he declared, maybe a little louder than strictly necessary. The man’s mouth was hypnotizing; his dark, pink lips slightly parted. His English was crisp and polished, and maybe a little posh. Sojourn in Great Britain, maybe?

“And I know Ju Jiutsu,” he added. “Just in case you thought you’d try anyway.”

His gaze slid down Goodnight’s body once, measuring him up, then he signaled for another drink.

A little stunned, Goodnight could do nothing but stare. He knew he wasn’t a striking beauty – at least not compared to the man in front of him – but he’d never been dismissed this casually before. Were all impossibly good looking people like this? Constantly annoyed at being hit on too much? Because damn, this guy couldn’t be any more ‘not interested’ if he’d actively tried.

Still, Goodnight couldn’t tear his gaze away from his face: his high cheekbones, his flat nose, the tight, tired lines in the soft, purple-shaded corners of his eyes. More than anything else, he wanted to run his fingers though the sable cascade of his hair until he calmed. He forced his attention back to the bar, where his glasses stood. They were both still empty.

Goodnight sighed. “Yeah, okay. I get it. My day hasn’t been all that peachy either, so I totally get you.” He toyed with one of the glasses, briefly contemplating ordering another shot. He didn’t feel drunk enough yet to return to his freezing hotel room. But he wanted to do something nice for this man, no matter how weird that sounded. Because gosh, he looked like he could use someone being nice to him. Goodnight pushed himself away from the bar. “I should probably leave.”

He stood, shoes clicking softly on the extremely polished wooden floor. The noise was swallowed by the humming rumble of the other patrons’ conversations and the slow jazz music filling in from the speakers. In one of the booths by the window, a girl with a huge afro laughed at her companion’s joke. The air smelled faintly of old alcohol, human bodies and sweat.

It hadn’t been like this when Goodnight had come here, but dark thoughts tended to drown out a lot of sensory input. He reached back for his coat.

A hand curled around his wrist, stopping the movement with a surprisingly strong grip.

Goodnight jumped and whirled.

The stranger looked up at him with an expression that might have been a little… guilty? “I’m sorry,” he said, before Goodnight had a chance to get a word out. “I didn’t mean to be this rude.”

He looked away. Under the syrupy yellow mood lighting it was hard to see, but Goodnight thought the man might be blushing.

When Goodnight didn’t say anything, the stranger slowly let him go. “Sorry. Again. My flight just… really sucked. I never meant to come here, much less for a family emergency.” His eyes widened. He shot a suspicious glance at his glass, furrowing his brows. “But I guess you don’t want to know that.”

“It’s okay,” Goodnight said immediately.

The guy looked up, dubious.

Goodnight’s cheeks heated. “No, I mean it,” he reassured him. “I mean, that’s what everyone else comes to a bar for, right? Drinks and relaxation?”

He wasn’t quite sure why he’d phrased it as a question when he meant to convince the man he didn’t just commit a social faux pas on his probably first hour in the States.

But the man wasn’t perturbed. He just… considered him for a moment. His gaze dropped to Goodnight’s throat, then lower, until it veered off to the side, catching himself before it became inappropriate.

The stranger picked up his glass and took a sip, then licked his lips. “Relaxation?”

His black eyes flickered up to meet Goodnight’s.

Goodnight’s breath caught in his throat.

The man’s mouth curled, but his expression was soft. “Is that offer still on offer?”

Goodnight inhaled sharply. A rush of prickly warmth flooded through his belly. Was this an alcohol-induced hallucination? Had he passed out at some point? He couldn’t be this damn lucky, after having screwed up everything. Also, could he possibly bring back this handsome stranger to his frigid hotel room? Why was he thinking about that now? He was stressed, more than a little tipsy and hopelessly horny. Also, a gorgeous man was propositioning him, that was why, his brain informed him. Goodnight smiled broadly.

The guy tilted his head in question.

Oh, right, Goodnight still needed to give him an answer. Smoothly, he took the stranger’s hand in his and bowed shakily to press a kiss to it. “That offer is definitely still on offer. Enchanté, mon cher. My name is Goodnight; forgive the old Southern puritan blood. What might be yours, cher? Although–,” he paused. “I apologize in advance if I can’t pronounce it.”

“Billy.”

The curt reply startled a laugh out of Goodnight. “Okay, that I can pronounce.”

He leaned against his bar stool in a half-perch. “How come someone as obviously exotic as yourself has such a common American name?”

“Ever thought I might be American?”

Goodnight blinked, then laughed. “Touché.”

“Nah.” Billy shook his head, indifferent. “It’s not my full name. My father was from here, though.”

“That would be where your flawless English comes from, then?”

Goodnight reached nonchalantly into his pocket and slid a bill over the counter. Billy watched him carefully, but didn’t say anything about it.

Instead, he shook his head once more. “Not really. He was only around for a business trip, or so I heard. Way back when. Left a little more for my mother than she bargained for. She raised me alone.”

He sounded fond; longing. Maybe a little homesick.

Goodnight waved the waiter and his out-thrust change away and gave Billy a sympathetic smile. “She must be an amazing lady.”

“She is.”

“But I have to say,” he leaned in a little. A gamble, because Goodnight could never resist a challenge. He caught his first whiff of Billy, mostly stale air-conditioning and exhaustion, but with a trace of something comforting under it: skin warmth. A promise of contact, of touch.

Goodnight hadn’t touched another human being in a long while. His hand twitched. He leaned in further, lured by the proximity. “I’m very glad your father met her. Because without him, you wouldn’t be here.”

Billy’s eyes widened. He drew back a little, abandoning Goodnight to the smell of alcohol and the noise.

“Wow, that sounded absolutely cheesy.”

Goodnight straightened abruptly, suddenly feeling the distance. He wondered if he’d ruined it again. “Well, darling. I am a charmer.”

Billy’s lips twitched. He splayed a hand on Goodnight’s chest, curling his fingers lightly into the fabric, holding him there. “Bet that mouth of yours gets you in trouble often.”

A hot flush spread over Goodnight’s skin. His throat was, at once, much too dry. He swallowed air, and his voice, when he tried to speak, was hoarse. “I hope right now it does.”

–

After, Goodnight wouldn’t remember how they made it up to his room. He recalled being faintly glad that the bar was attached to the hotel, so they didn’t have to brace the cold outside. Which was great, because this way Goodnight could get a head start on undressing Billy, right there in the hallway.

It was scandalous, and adventurous, and the thought of someone seeing them like this made his pulse rush in his ear like a jet engine.

But getting Billy naked was just the first step. Goodnight also wanted to get him into his bed and, once there, treat him with all the reverence he deserved.

As soon as they slipped into his room, though, Billy turned around and pushed him up against the door. Goodnight banged his head on the wood as it fell shut. Pain radiated through the back of his skull, but he found he didn’t care, because Billy followed with his whole body and pressed them together from head to toe. Then, that gorgeous man slipped him the tongue.

Goodnight’s thoughts ground to a halt. His trembling fingers crushed the fabric of Billy’s jacket, pulling and pulling as though they could get any closer. “Billy,” he whispered, between greedy sucks. He must be panting already, seeing as he couldn’t seem to find the air to talk.

Billy’s hand slid down his chest, squeezing his nipple trough the fabric. “Yes?”

Goodnight moaned. “What was I going to say?”

Billy chuckled delightedly. His breath puffed against Goodnight’s cheek, hot and moist, before he moved lower, towards his throat. He licked it, saliva cooling in the wake of his hot tongue. At the same time, his hand stroked Goodnight’s belly and then lower, lower, not stopping. Then he was – god – rubbing Goodnight through his pants. The pressure was everything, was all he ever wanted.

He hitched his hips into Billy’s grip, only vaguely aware that this wasn’t what he’d planned. But his ability to think clearly was rapidly diminishing.

Billy’s hand retreated.

Goodnight whined at the loss, which got him another of those dark, rumbling chuckles, and then he felt a tug at his pants. They loosened and Billy slid his hand in.

Goodnight threw his head back, right onto the same spot as before, but the painful sparks from the bruise barely made it into his brain. Insignificant, compared to the rolling waves of pleasure Billy’s talented hand gave him.

There was a last, short lick in the dip between his collarbones and Billy’s face dropped away. Goodnight gasped his name, blinking his eyes open at the dark ceiling. Heck, they hadn’t even managed to turn on the lights. What dim glow there was in the room came from outside; a streetlight, maybe, muted through the thick curtain.

Billy was on his knees in front of him. His dark hair fell into his face in soft shadows, and he pulled down Goodnight’s pants just enough for the bugle in his briefs to stand out. Then Billy leaned in, mouthing at the fabric.

Goodnight went off like a firework. He cried out, clutching the door handle for balance, shaking all over. His briefs were soaked through in an instant.

Billy made a noise of surprise and drew back.

Goodnight sank against the wood, panting. New heat crawled into his cheeks: not the delicious flush of their flirt earlier, but this time accompanied by a terrible curdling sensation in his stomach. His throat burned with every indrawn breath, like he’d just run a marathon.

Billy cocked his head, and even though it was dark, Goodnight could perfectly imagine the look on his face. A raised eyebrow, maybe. Disbelief and impatience. A look that said ‘seriously?’ in a disappointed tone without ever needing to add a word to the emotion.

Goodnight tried to catch his breath. He needed to say something, to explain. But his vocal cords weren’t working. His legs felt like jelly. If his knees gave out right now, he’d fall right onto Billy.

Gorgeous Billy, who was still in front of him, waiting expectantly.

Mind racing frantically, Goodnight reached into his pocket and came up with a crinkling foil wrapper. “Sorry, cher. I don’t know what your plans here were, other than to absolutely blow my mind. But how do you feel about, as they say, pitching?”

He still couldn’t see Billy’s face properly, but Goodnight could feel his grip tighten on his hips. A tiny sound escaped his parted lips. They moved, he must be licking them, because he wasn’t saying anything.

Then he sat back and the weak light caught Billy’s face just so, glinting off his predatory smile. He stood up in a swift, fluid motion, and took Goodnight’s wrist.

They fell onto the bed in a whirlwind of soft, washed sheets. Goodnight could only gape in awe at the man above him, haloed by the window light. Maybe this trip to Seattle wasn’t that awful after all, he thought, watching Billy tear off his shirt.

–

Billy had to leave in the morning. He’d managed to check in via mobile at some point last night, between bouts, but wanted to get to his own hotel room and shower, not to mention drop of his stuff, before facing the day. Which was a shame. Goodnight quite liked having all that naked skin and muscle in his bed. At least there was a number written in bold red in the top corner of the room service’s menu card. Goodnight saved it to his phone and went to the notary’s office again.

The room was as packed as it had been the day before. Even more so, because this time, the notary had brought his two assistants. Moral support, Goodnight supposed.

He surveyed his apparent siblings with distaste. Four of them were already present, and he could see his father in none of them. And none of them deserved any of his father’s money. Except maybe the kid that was orphaned at fourteen, but not the others. To say nothing of the fact that most of his father’s indiscretions were now married women, and by the expensive clothing and disdainful looks they wore, hadn’t done too badly for themselves. So it wasn’t like they _needed_ any of it.

The hands of the clock ticked closer towards eleven.

Goodnight stood up. “I want to get this over with as fast as possible,” he declared, voice cutting over the noise. Instantly, most of the chatter stopped. Except for a woman and her apparent friend who shot him a dirty look and kept whispering.

“Mr. Robicheaux,” the notary began.

“There is no question as to whom the assets belong to,” Goodnight said, talking over him. “My mother was my father’s rightful wife. She is his heir, and I am hers.”

“Mr. Robicheaux, I’m sorry, but we cannot start as of yet. The last of your siblings is still missing.”

“What do I care?”, groused Goodnight. “If they aren’t here, all the better. It’s not like they have any right to be.”

“Your father’s will states explicitly–,” the notary broke off, exchanging a quick glance with his assistant. Then he waved a hand at Goodnight. “You know what? Just sit down.”

“The hell I will,” Goodnight protested.

The door flung open so hard it barely avoided hitting the second assistant standing behind it.

“Sorry I’m late,” said a dark, almost monotone voice. The only inflection was the panting breath. Nonetheless, ice dropped into Goodnight’s stomach. He knew that voice.

He turned, wide-eyed. In the open door stood Billy.

**Author's Note:**

> Additional Warning: This story includes accidental incest. Both parties are unaware of their familial connection at that point in time.


End file.
